He jumped in his seat, bumped his head against the glass, and opened his eyes to find one of the news team’s camera crew grinning at him.
He wound down the window. ‘Sorry, I must’ve dropped off. I’m not blocking you in, am I?’
The man shook his head, re-positioned the weight of the tripod slung across one shoulder and threw a cigarette to the ground, exhaling the smoke over the car roof.
‘No, you’re all right. Just thought you might want to know the press conference starts in five minutes.’
‘Oh, thanks – okay.’
The man nodded, hoisted the tripod farther up his arm, then turned and traipsed towards the house.
Will locked the car and hurried after him, staying a few paces behind.
At the front door, the media representatives were directed by a woman in a black business suit to a room to the left of the door, which opened out into what had at one time been a front reception room.
Will’s jaw dropped as he entered the space, which was larger than the floor plan of his and Amy’s entire apartment.
‘Definitely didn’t get this on a politician’s wage,’ he murmured, as he walked past a long table from where staff served tea and coffee.
He shook his head at the proffered beverages and slid into a seat at the back, next to the door. At the front of the room, a wooden lectern had been erected, a microphone sticking up from its polished beech surface.
Rossiter’s election team had been busy, decorating the plain wooden podium so that his trademark coloured banners swung from every available surface.
’Never misses a chance, does he?’ grinned a reporter as he slipped into the seat in front of Will. ‘Talk about a showman.’
Will mumbled an incoherent response and continued to gaze around the room.
A small public address system comprising two speakers at opposite ends of the room faced outwards, while the sides of the room had been filled with the television cameras of several well-known news outlets.
As the room filled, Will’s direct line of sight to the podium became cluttered, and he found that he had to shift in his seat and move his head from side to side if he was going to be able to see Rossiter make his speech.
The general hub-bub of noise dissipated as a door opened, the entrance previously concealed behind one of the wall panels, and Rossiter walked towards the lectern.
He was followed by a slightly shorter man, who wore a grey suit, his salt-and-pepper hair styled fashionably over his skull despite his age, and piercing blue eyes that swept the room, as if gauging the quality of the journalists that had attended.
Rossiter turned to the man, and murmured into his ear. The man nodded, and then Rossiter moved to the microphone and faced the gathered media.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining me today,’ he said. ‘I’ll make a brief statement, after which I’ll take a few questions. As you’ll appreciate, I’m still a little tired from the events of the past twenty-four hours, so please bear with me.’
A polite rumble of voices filled the room, interspersed with the smooth clicks and beeps of digital cameras.
Rossiter cleared his throat, and placed his palm on the one-page statement that had been set on the lectern.
‘On Monday, I was returning from an interview with Amy Peters when my car was attacked by masked gunmen. My bodyguard and driver were shot in cold blood, and Miss Peters sustained a bullet wound to her head. Miss Peters remains in a critical condition in hospital. I’d like to thank the staff at the Prince George Hospital for their professionalism and care. Against my doctor’s advice, I discharged myself from their care late yesterday afternoon, simply so that their valuable time could be spent looking after patients in more need of their attention than I.’
He pushed the page aside and turned his gaze to his press secretary. Rossiter nodded, and the man glided across the floor to the lectern, cleared his throat, and leaned down to speak into the microphone.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Rossiter will now take questions from the audience.’
Will froze, his heart lurching painfully.
The voice was that of the mysterious caller from yesterday. He was sure of it.
His skin prickled, and he felt a chill across his shoulders as the man continued to field questions and answers from the throng of reporters, before he shifted in his seat to get a better view.
As he peered to the side of the man’s head in front of him, he swore under his breath. He now recognised the man from the photograph on Amy’s hard drive – he was one of the four men in the first photograph. His hair was flecked through with grey and longer now, but Will was sure it was the same man.
He slumped in his seat, lowering his profile and hoped the man didn’t spot him sitting in the audience.
What the hell was going on?
Will realised he’d have to stay out of sight, and then leave the building without the press secretary or Rossiter spotting him. Until he worked through the rest of Amy’s notes, he had to assume that the two men were trouble, and meant him harm.
On the other hand, he had to try to find out the man’s name. Rossiter hadn’t introduced him, and the rest of the press gathered in the room seemed to know who he was.
He cursed, wishing now that he’d taken as much notice of the regular election reporting as Amy had. Instead, he’d tuned it out, tired of the information overload on the television every morning and night.
He turned to the woman to his right, to ask her, but she glanced sideways at him, shook her head and held her phone higher in the air to capture Rossiter’s answers as his voice drifted across the room.
Will’s mind worked as the questions rumbled around him, Rossiter’s calm tones carrying over the murmur of voices in the air.
He glanced to his left, and saw the woman who had chaperoned everyone through the front door now standing in the room, her arms folded, her eyes calmly watching the press conference. Behind her, two men dressed in dark suits wore some sort of communications equipment, the coiled wire to their earpieces curling over their collars.
Will turned his head as the woman next to him raised her hand, and quickly bent down, pretending to tie his shoelace.
The woman caught the press secretary’s attention, and jumped to her feet, smartphone raised in the air to record the politician’s response.
‘Mr Rossiter, have you any idea why your car was targeted and why you were attacked?’
‘I’m unable to comment further on the situation, as I’m still assisting the police in every way I can to help them catch the perpetrators of this heinous crime.’
The politician fielded the next two questions from different journalists with a similar response, and then pointed to a man in the front row.
‘Yes, Stephen?’
‘Do you have a message for the people who attacked you and your staff, Mr Rossiter?’
‘Yes. I do,’ he said. Rossiter glared at the television camera lens facing him. ‘We will catch you,’ he said, his tone authoritative. ‘And when we do, you will face the full force of the law for the murder of two innocent people and the serious injury of a third.’
‘And what of the reporter, Amy Peters, who was shot and wounded? Do you have anything to say to her family?’
Will recognised the speaker as the real reporter from Amy’s office, and a colleague of hers that he’d met at the Christmas party. He slouched in his seat to avoid being acknowledged by the man, not wishing Rossiter to know of his presence now, not until he’d figured out what was going on.
‘Of course, and please express my gratitude to your editor at this difficult time for his careful reporting of the incident.’ Rossiter exhaled, and ran his hand through his hair. ‘Sadly, I’m given to believe that Miss Peters has suffered very serious injuries,’ he began. ‘However, I wish to convey my thoughts to her friends and colleagues and wish her a speedy recovery.’
A relieved expression crossed the politician’s face as a different journalist asked for
a comment on his election campaign.
‘How will the events of the past two days affect your chances of winning the General Election?’
Will watched as a determined expression washed across Rossiter’s features.
‘They won’t,’ he said. ‘It’s business as usual for me.’
He turned to his press secretary and nodded, before moving away from the lectern and striding towards an open door.
‘That’ll be all the questions today, ladies and gentlemen,’ intoned the media expert. ‘However, Mr Rossiter appreciates you taking the time to travel to this press conference and would invite you to stay for refreshments in the reception room across the front hall.’
Will wiped his forehead and realised leaving by the front door would be out of the question.
If he was right about the mysterious caller being Rossiter’s press secretary, then he could assume that the man knew he was there.
So he had to find another way out of the building.
A house like this would surely have French doors leading from a study, a back door and possibly another door for the hired help, he reasoned. All he had to do was sneak past the security men and get out fast.
As the formalities were concluded, and the press secretary’s attention was held fully by the cameras to the right, Will stood and slipped out the room.
The front entranceway was blocked by the two large security men with their backs to him. Nodding to the woman standing just inside the door as he passed, he entered the hallway and waited until her attention was taken by another journalist before he drifted along the passageway, trying door handles and peeking into rooms as he walked.
In the background, the hub-bub of the press conference continued, a white noise to the thoughts rushing around Will’s head.
Pushing open an oak-panelled door to his left, he peered round the corner, then stepped over the threshold into what appeared to be a library. By the open patio doors, dust motes danced in the sunbeam that struck the carpet below, while the musty smell of old books filled the air, and he fought the urge to sneeze.
The curtains billowed in the breeze, and he walked farther into the room, mesmerised by the rows and rows of books that lined the shelves.
He ran his fingers over the spines of first editions, antique tomes and yellowed pages.
As he moved around the room, his attention was taken by a group of framed photographs mounted on the wall. He edged closer, peering at each one in turn and realised they represented a visual catalogue of the events that had brought Rossiter and Gregory into the public eye and onto the election campaign.
Will scratched his ear and wondered if Rossiter knew his press secretary had been responsible for his being shot yesterday.
In all of the photographs, the men looked relaxed, smiling, proud of their achievements.
Will didn’t get the impression that they had any animosity, and from the news articles relating to Rossiter’s rise through the Party’s ranks and subsequent polls to date, Malcolm Gregory had almost willingly taken a back seat to ensure the other man’s success, but maybe he was having second thoughts and starting to regret that decision.
He froze at movement behind him.
‘Who the bloody hell are you?’
16
Will turned slowly at the sound of the voice, automatically raising his hands.
The first thought that entered his head was less than polite, but more than appropriate for the moment.
The second was that the woman in front of him was beautiful, even if she was holding a double-barrelled shotgun that was aimed right at his face.
‘I said, who the hell are you?’
Will blinked, his gaze fixated on the twin dark pits of the barrels, for a moment wondering if he’d see the double flash that would kill him if the woman’s index finger moved.
He risked a glance at her face, and his breath caught.
Dark brown eyes peered out from under a fringe of glossy black hair that tumbled around her face and over her shoulders. She stood a head shorter than Will, the shotgun angled up at his face, the stock held professionally into her shoulder, which was bare under a bright pink vest top. She wore black jeans that moulded to her legs, and stood barefoot on the parquet floor. A silver St Christopher pendant hung around her neck by a delicate chain.
She glared at him along the barrels. ‘Have you lost your fucking voice? I asked you a question.’
Will blinked, strangely shocked at the profanity from such a pixie-like figure. Did pixies use guns? He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry – I… I couldn’t find the toilet so I, um…’
‘Thought you’d steal something? You thieving bastard.’ The shotgun swung frighteningly closer to his nose.
‘No!’ Will raised his hands higher. ‘Please – I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not a burglar. I was at the press conference – out there.’ His mind raced. ‘Do you want to see my driver’s licence?’
She frowned, the gun jerking away. ‘Your driver’s licence?’
‘I’ve got a press pass too.’ Will’s gaze traced the line of the barrels as she lowered the gun a little.
‘Show me. Slowly!’
Will kept his left hand raised in the air while his right sought out his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, his fingers shaking.
He fumbled, dropping the leather case to the floor, and shrugged apologetically.
‘Very fuckin’ funny.’ The shotgun twitched to his face once more. ‘Kick it over here and put your hands on your head.’
Will stepped back as the woman held the gun with one hand and bent down. She flicked his wallet open, pulled out his driver’s licence and held it up. ‘Will Fletcher, eh?’
She stood, removed her finger from the trigger guard of the shotgun, opened the breach, and balanced it in the crook of her arm.
Will’s gaze twitched to the barrels and kept still. The last thing he wanted was to make her even more nervous and give her an excuse to shoot him.
‘Well, I suppose you’d be an idiot of a burglar to be carrying around your driver’s licence.’ Her words interrupted his thoughts and his eyes met hers. A slight crease twitched at her eyes. ‘So what the hell are you doing in my uncle’s house?’
Will exhaled as she finally lowered the shotgun and removed the cartridges. He dropped his hands from his head, his heart rate slowly returning to some semblance of normal, and cleared his throat.
‘I’d heard he was recuperating here,’ he began. ‘I was hoping he could help me.’
‘Help you?’ she frowned. ‘Does he know you, then?’
Will shook his head. ‘He met my girlfriend yesterday morning – before the attack on his car.’
The woman’s mouth opened a little, and she raised her eyebrows. ‘Amy? The journalist?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she okay?’
Will shrugged. ‘They tell me it’s too early to say.’ He looked away, sniffled, and tried to ignore the stinging sensation at the corner of his eyes. He blinked, and then looked back at her. ‘Sorry.’
She shook her head. ‘No – I’m the one who ought to be apologising. Shit.’
She turned and leaned the shotgun against a small decorative table, made sure it wasn’t going to slip, and then glanced back at him. ‘You gave me a fright.’
Will’s mouth twitched. ‘I think we’re even.’
She laughed, a gutsy splutter of sound. ‘That we are.’ She sighed. ‘I think we need to start again, Will Fletcher.’ She held out her hand. ‘Erin Hogarth. I’m Ian Rossiter’s niece.’
Will shook her hand, surprised at her firm grip. ‘Nice to meet you – I think?’
She laughed again. ‘It can only get better, right?’ She put her hand on his arm, and then pointed down the hallway behind him. ‘Come on. I don’t know about you, but after that little scare, I could do with a drink.’ She bent down, picked up the shotgun and slung it across her arms. ‘I’d better put this back too.’
‘Do you actually know how
to use it?’
‘Of course,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘How fast can you run?’
Will swallowed, then heard her chuckle under her breath, and shook his head.
She led the way along the hallway, her bare feet soundless on the ornamental rugs that covered the parquet flooring in places.
Will followed mutely, his head turning left and right as he stared at the ostentatious surroundings.
Oil paintings hung on opposing walls, traditional hunting scenes tangling with portraits of humourless men dressed in eighteenth century clothing. Will sensed their unfavourable expressions were frowning down at him.
‘Awful, aren’t they?’ Erin scowled. ‘I wish he’d take them down, put something better on the walls.’
‘Are they relatives?’
She snorted. ‘No. They came with the house. Like everything else around here.’ She rapped her knuckles on a mahogany dresser as she passed.
‘Listen,’ said Will, stopping. ‘Would you mind if we got out of here? Maybe go to a pub nearby or something, if you still need that drink?’
‘What?’
‘I’d rather just leave if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I – I really shouldn’t have come here. Is there a back door?’
‘Back door?’ She turned, a confused look on her face.
‘Yes. If you don’t mind?’
His heartbeat raced. If Erin turned the next corner, he’d be back at the front entrance, facing a minimum of two security guards and one very pissed off press secretary. He had to get out of here and find out what was really going on.
He silently prayed that she wouldn’t demand to know why he wanted to avoid the assembled throng at the front of the house, and especially the press secretary – not until he’d fathomed out why the man had threatened him, or what the man’s intentions might be in relation to Rossiter.
‘We could go for a drink.’ The words burst from his lips before he’d had a chance to think.
Erin frowned. ‘Um, okay, I guess.’
‘Great – my treat, all right?’
‘Sure. I’ll get my coat and put some shoes on.’
To Will’s relief, she turned right, away from the front door and along a passageway that eventually led to a mud room. He watched as she pulled on an old pair of sneakers and shrugged a grey woollen coat over her shoulders.
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