Do Not Disturb

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Through the windshield, he saw Sian being ushered into the car in front of them. She wasn’t handcuffed, as Petra had been—and what was that about? Petra had nothing to do with any of this—but she did appear to be under arrest. Nevertheless, Sian looked not just relaxed but happy. When her sixth sense kicked in and she caught him staring, she flashed him a grin that he could only interpret as one of triumph.

  Whatever happened to him now, that girl would have made her name in the tawdry world of investigative journalism and, he imagined, her fortune too. He didn’t think he’d ever hated another human being quite so much. Why hadn’t she come to him with what she knew? He’d have paid her fifty times whatever she’d been offered for her story. They could both have been rich, safe, and free.

  “Do you know her?” asked Bob, catching the exchange of looks. Anton shook his head. “No. I never laid eyes on her before tonight. Although she sure as hell seems to know me.”

  “Quiet,” ordered Bob, nodding at the cops in the front seat. “No she doesn’t. She’s a fantasist, got it? Let me do the talking.”

  Hidden in the shadows of one of the Herrick’s perfectly clipped yew hedges, Honor watched as the cars containing Anton and Sian sped away, followed by a clamoring press pack. With Tina there to work the crowds and the media, she had been able to hang back and focus on making sure the plan ran smoothly behind the scenes. Which it had, until Sian had been arrested. That was most definitely not supposed to happen.

  “Hey.”

  Honor jumped like she’d just been jabbed with a cattle prod. Lucas had crept up behind her and, wrapping both arms around her waist, begun dragging her farther back into the shadow.

  “Let go of me!” she said crossly, wriggling free.

  “Shhhh,” he whispered in her ear, clapping a hand across her mouth. “Someone will hear you. You don’t want the press on your case, do you?”

  Honor shivered. It was late and getting cold, and all this standing still was making it worse. Plus Lucas’s warm breath on her neck tickled.

  “You’ve got goose bumps,” he said, staring at the upright hairs on her forearms. “Am I making you nervous?”

  Honor looked at him witheringly. “No,” she said. “I’m cold. And I’m worried about Sian. Did you see the cops take her away just now?”

  He nodded.

  “I think they arrested her,” said Honor. “Why would they do that? We have to get down to the station, right now. We have to straighten this out.”

  She made a move to go, but Lucas grabbed her arm.

  “No,” he said firmly. “Trust me. Whatever it is, Sian can take care of herself. She knew what she was getting into.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Honor indignantly. What a classically selfish, Lucas response. “We can’t just abandon the poor girl!”

  Just then, the gaggle of media parted like the Red Sea and an ashen, handcuffed Petra was shoved unceremoniously into a third waiting police car.

  “Oh my God.” Honor turned back to Lucas. “Petra too? This is ridiculous. What’s going on?”

  Lucas shrugged and gave her an innocent “beats me” look. But Honor wasn’t buying it.

  “What don’t I know?” she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What haven’t you told me?”

  Lucas took a deep breath. Now was probably as good a time as any. “Come with me,” he whispered. “We need to talk.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  YOU CAN’T DO this to me!” yelled Sian at the top of her lungs. “I’m a reporter! Whatever happened to freedom of the press? And where the hell is he going?”

  Anton, still glued to his attorney like a barnacle to a rock, was being escorted across the lobby and out the back door of the East Hampton station. His brows were corrugated in concentration, and he seemed not to notice the racket coming from the holding cell behind him, or Sian’s furious little face glaring at him through the wooden porthole.

  “He’s going to New York,” said the duty sergeant patiently. “Thanks to you he has a date with the FBI. That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “What I want,” said Sian, “is the key to this door. Or failing that, an attorney, a phone, and something to eat. A Big Mac’d be nice.” It was hard to be taken seriously while wearing a semipornographical French maid’s outfit, but she did her best to sound like she meant business. “And I’d like a copy of the early edition of the News of the World.”

  “News of the what?” The sergeant looked blank. “Listen, kiddo, you’ll be outta here just as soon as one of your rich buddies shows up with your bail money.”

  The East Hampton police station had a retro Leave It to Beaver ambience that, under other circumstances, Sian might have found endearingly quaint. The lobby looked like it hadn’t been touched since the fifties, all heavy wooden fixtures and fittings, with a polished brass handbell on the desk for attracting the duty officer’s attention. But appearances could be deceptive. It might look like the kind of place where the worst that ever happened was some old lady’s cat getting stuck up a tree or a bunch of kids getting a little overenthusiastic with the trick or treating at Halloween. In fact, in the last two years alone, three local murders had made the national news, not to mention a Mafia money-laundering operation that had seen two brothers from Bridgehampton arrested and sent down for consecutive life sentences. Anton Tisch was hardly the first big fish to pass through these musty old halls, nor, she imagined, would he be the last. The sergeant returned to his Sudoku puzzle, and Sian skulked over to the chair at the back of her cell. This was so annoying!

  The cop who’d dragged her out of the projection room muttered something about trespassing and impersonation, false pretenses, or some other bullshit. Didn’t these guys realize what undercover reporting was? What was she supposed to do, wander up to Petra Kamalski bold as brass and say: “Excuse me, my name’s Sian. Do you mind awfully if I ruin your party, expose your boyfriend as a gun-running pedophile, then have you arrested for getting kerosene-happy at Palmers last year? You don’t? Great! Thanks!”

  If the police had done their job right and smelled Anton and Petra for the rats they were, she wouldn’t have had to trespass and take matters into her own hands. But for some reason, the arresting officer hadn’t been swayed by the obvious logic of this argument and had gone ahead and booked her anyway. Worse, the bastard had only allowed her two phone calls before shutting her in the lockup. She’d tried Honor’s cell, then Lucas’s, but both were switched off. How the hell was she supposed to make bail if she couldn’t call anyone to come get her?

  Half an hour passed, and soon her stomach was rumbling so loudly you could have measured it on the Richter scale. Too nervous to eat all day, she found she was suddenly famished. Given the option of burger or phone, at this point she’d have gone for the Mac and fries, hands down.

  Outside, she could hear the low hum of the chattering TV crews, no doubt pitching camp in the hope of getting a decent shot of Anton being led away.

  “I should be out there,” she moaned to no one in particular. “This is my story that’s breaking. It’s not fair.”

  A few minutes later, she was distracted from her pity party by the arrival of Petra. Looking like a death’s-head in her funereal black dress and staring straight ahead, she was whisked away immediately to an interview room at the rear of the building, followed moments later by another black-suited woman, presumably a lawyer.

  “Spoilsports,” said Sian, as the detectives closed the door behind them. “You might at least let me watch. Haven’t you got one of those see-through glass thingies you could put me in? Oh, come on. I won’t tell.”

  The duty sergeant laughed and shook his head. “You know, the time’ll pass a lot quicker if you just go to sleep. There are blankets in there and a pillow. It is almost midnight.”

  “Yeah, right,” grumbled Sian. “As if I could sleep. I’m too fucking hungry to sleep.”

  The next thing she knew, she was being jolted roughly awake by somebody sh
aking her shoulder.

  “Hey, sleeping beauty.”

  It was a different cop, a weasel-faced little man with a nose so long and thin and protruding it could have been designed to search out termites. His friend must have finished his shift and gone home. How long had she been out?

  “Wake up. Looks like your prince has come.”

  For one fleeting, mad, sleep-confused moment, Sian thought he meant Ben. But she was almost as pleased when she opened her eyes and saw who it actually was.

  “Don’t say anything, OK?” said Lola. “I know I look like shit.”

  In a pair of green sweatpants-cum-pajamas, with one of Marti’s thick fisherman’s sweaters over the top and with her feet thrust into a pair of frankly filthy Ugg boots, she had clearly just been dragged out of bed. But even without makeup and with her long red hair matted and tangled, she somehow managed to project an aura of sexiness that had weasel-face and his buddies staring at her like dogs slavering over a steak.

  “Yeah, well, check out my outfit,” quipped Sian, throwing off the blanket to reveal her ridiculous frilly apron. “Talk about fashion forward, right?”

  But Lola was way too overemotional for banter. Stepping forward with tears in her eyes, she opened her arms, and Sian ran headlong into them, hugging her back like a long-lost sister.

  “I’m sorry,” they both said simultaneously, then giggled.

  “How did you know I was here?” asked Sian.

  “Nick told me,” said Lola. “Marti and I were sound asleep when he got back to the house and…oh, hi!” She smiled at the weasel-faced cop, whipping out her platinum credit card along with a killer Carter smile. “I need to pay her bond. Do you guys take Amex?”

  “That’ll do nicely, thank you,” said the cop with a leering smile, then turning to Sian, added, “Looks like you got yourself some friends in high places.”

  The girls spent the first ten minutes of the car ride shaking off reporters. Thankfully, Lola knew the local back roads like the back of her hand, and only the most dogged of the press pack dared follow her once she started weaving in and out of the maze of lanes and bumpy beach tracks at rally driver speed.

  “You know, I could just get out and talk to them? Give them a quote or whatever,” said Sian queasily, as the jeep made another lurching left-right-left combination of turns and almost veered into a ditch. “Holy crap, Lola, please slow down. I know I told Simon that I wouldn’t talk to any other papers, but it’s not worth dying for, you know?”

  “We aren’t gonna die,” said Lola, in the same breath switching off her headlights and plunging them, the road, and everything into total, abject darkness. “Try and catch me now, asshole,” she grinned in her rearview mirror.

  Sure enough, within minutes they’d shaken off the last of the stragglers and Lola pulled over into the deserted parking lot of a diner so that they could finally have a chance to talk.

  “Thanks,” said Sian, a little nervously, once Lola had killed the engine. “For coming to get me. And for paying that bail money.”

  “No problem.” Lola smiled. “Now that you’re a world-famous investigative reporter, you can pay me back, right? So you sold Satan the exclusive, huh? How much d’you manage to screw out of him for that?”

  “More than he wanted to pay,” said Sian. “But less than it’s worth, I reckon. I knew it was gonna be a big story as soon as I got the girls from Children of Hope to talk. But the arms dealing was more than even I expected. Those poor little boys.” She shook her head sadly.

  “Well, those assholes chasing us certainly seemed to think it was big news,” said Lola.

  An awkward silence fell, which Sian was the first to break.

  “About Lucas,” she said, staring straight ahead, tracing patterns in the stars through the windshield. “What you saw. Believe me, I didn’t want him in the apartment that night any more than you did. And that kiss…it totally took me by surprise. There’s nothing going on between us, truly.”

  Lola raised a hand for her to stop. “Forget about it,” she said.

  “No, really,” said Sian, “it’s important to me that you know. I don’t have any feelings for Lucas. But I do have to admit he’s been phenomenal in getting everything together for tonight. And, please don’t yell, but he actually does have a nicer side to him. I wouldn’t have believed it myself until now.”

  “It’s OK,” said Lola. “I’m sure he does. I needed someone to blame for Dad’s affair, that’s all. For what it did to my mom.”

  “Oh, don’t, please don’t cry,” said Sian, watching the tears welling up in her eyes.

  “It’s OK.” Lola sniffed, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “The point is that Lucas was a handy scapegoat. But it was never his fault. My dad was the only person to blame.”

  “Well,” said Sian reasonably, “I don’t know if I’d go that far. Honor was there too, remember? It takes two to tango. And Anton was the one who leaked it to the press.”

  “Yes, but it’s not just the affair.” Lola shook her head angrily. “All my life, my father’s set himself up as this big moral example. He used to criticize Mom for being shallow—and maybe she is—but at least she’s honest, you know? Dad’s such a fake. In his eyes Mom was shallow, I was spoiled, and my brother was a lazy jerk.”

  “Your brother is a lazy jerk,” said Sian, reasonably.

  “I know.” Lola smiled. “Dad always acted so baffled by that. Like ‘How could such a great guy like me wind up with such a selfish kid?’ And yet underneath all the bullshit, he and Nick aren’t so different. Marti was the one who made me see it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I always knew my parents were conservative. I even knew they were snobs. But bringing Marti home really opened my eyes. My dad is so racist, so self-righteous, so full of…”

  “Shit?” offered Sian.

  “I was gonna say hate,” said Lola, shivering despite the warmth of the car with the heaters turned up full blast. For a moment the word hung in the air between them, like a stale smell. “He actually looks down on Marti,” Lola went on. “He looks down on Marti. Where does he get off? Anyway.” She smiled, abruptly shifting gears. “The point is, it was never really about Lucas, or you. I’m glad he helped you get your story.”

  “Honestly?” Sian’s face lit up.

  “Absolutely,” said Lola. “Are you kidding me? Anton Tisch is clearly, like, the world’s biggest asshole. You totally nailed him.”

  They hugged again, all traces of awkwardness gone.

  “So what now?” Sian asked warily, as Lola turned on the ignition again. “I can’t go back to Palmers, or the cottage. The press’ll be everywhere.”

  “You can sleep in our guest house,” said Lola. “It’s private, alarmed, and we have dogs.”

  “Sounds perfect,” said Sian. Suddenly she longed for a bed, any bed. There’d be time enough to savor her triumph and catch up with Lucas and Honor in the morning. After five minutes with her head lolling exhausted against the window, she suddenly sat up. “Hold on. Isn’t your house in the other direction?”

  Lola smiled. “Er, yeah. We’re making a quick detour.”

  “A detour, really? Now?” said Sian. “I don’t wanna sound ungrateful, Lo, but couldn’t it wait till tomorrow? I’m wiped out.”

  “Not really,” said Lola. “You’ll see.”

  They’d reached the bottom of an unlit dirt road. Winding down her window, Sian could hear the lapping of waves. Somewhere in the near distance, she could also make out a dying buzz of chattering voices and revving engines—the remnants of the Herrick party heading home.

  “Lola! You moron,” she said good-naturedly, climbing out of the car onto the deserted beach. “You took us in a circle; we’re right outside Palmers, aren’t we? I thought you wanted to avoid the press. This place’ll be crawling with them soon, if it isn’t already.”

  “Actually,” the voice came from behind her, close to the shore, “most of them sloped off once they realized
Honor and Tina weren’t here.”

  Sian froze, unable to bring herself to look around. She looked for Lola, but she seemed to have mysteriously vanished.

  “And you, of course,” the deep cockney rumble went on. “They all wanted to talk to you. But some bright spark convinced them you’d been whisked off to New York for interviews. Don’t know his name, but I heard he was English, charismatic, and looked a bit like Brad Pitt. Only fitter.”

  Sian felt her stomach crunch itself into a fist, then flip over like one of those jumping frog bath toys she used to have as a kid.

  “Shouldn’t you be in London?” Turning around at last, she put on her best platonic smile.

  “Oh, well, that’s nice,” said Ben, walking slowly across the sand toward her. “Would you rather I was in London? That’s just charming, that is, after I’ve flown halfway across the world to see you.”

  He was wearing the same tattered pair of shorts he’d had on the day she first met him, and a Rolling Stones T-shirt that had seen better days. He looked tired and pale, and his hair, as usual, was all over the place, sticking up at all angles in the night breeze. But his smile was like a sunburst, so big and broad and joyful that it dominated not only his face, but all of him, from his scruffy bed-head to his threadbare tennis shoes. If she’d wanted him any more, she would have burst into flames.