by Mary Birk
She laughed and made a face. “Not me. Fry up as well.”
“A woman after my own heart.”
“So I’m taking it that you don’t think I’m too much like my brother?”
“Nothing like your brother.”
“What do you mean?” She posed her question, listening carefully for any hidden meaning in his answer.
He snorted. “I’m not into men. I could very easily be into you.”
She breathed a silent sigh of relief. So he didn’t know her secret.
Lawrence opened the door of the café and let her pass in front of him. Darby led the way to a vacant booth and slid into the battered red vinyl seat. He took the seat across from her. The air hung heavy with the smell of fried meats and coffee, and Darby knew her clothing would reek when she left. Ah, the price of devotion to duty.
A tired waitress in a pink uniform with lemon yellow frizz for hair handed them menus. Noting the grimy condition of the laminated cardboard, Darby hastily declined the one offered to her. God, didn’t they ever wipe the bloody things off. Hadn’t they heard of disinfectant?
“I’ll just have what you’re having, Mark.”
He nodded as if he were used to women deferring to him, and rattled off their order. She wanted to puke. How much animal fat did he shove down his self-satisfied gullet every day? The thought of puking reminded her of her sister-in-law’s miserable condition. She didn’t feel any sympathy, though. The bitch deserved to be sick every second of every day, and Darby hoped she was.
When they each had a cup of what apparently passed for coffee here in front of them, Lawrence and Darby went over the status of the investigation into Richard Ramsey’s death, as well as the reports on both Ramsey and DC Parson’s deaths.
Darby frowned when he finished. “So, nothing yet. That’s disappointing.”
“It is.”
“So do you agree with Terrence that it’s unlikely Von Zandt was involved?”
“I never thought he was, but Reid was keen for it. I’m glad he’s finally seen the error of his ways.”
Darby heard the note of self-satisfaction in Lawrence’s voice and resisted the urge to kick him under the table. “What about the suspicious timing—the day before Ramsey’s supposed to hand over information implicating him?” Terrence wanted her to make sure DI Lawrence had bought the story about the change in the investigation’s focus.
“We don’t actually know that Ramsey really ever had anything. He could have just been bluffing to cover his own involvement. He might have just been saying what he thought your brother wanted to hear.”
“Good point.” The insufferable bastard. Her brother would never have signaled what he wanted to hear to a witness.
“I think from what he said about changing the direction of the investigation that Reid finally agrees with me.”
She nodded. “You must be right.”
In a voice that was just a little too nonchalant, Lawrence said, “So, are you staying with big brother?”
She took a drink of her coffee. “Just last night. I’m staying at the Blythswood Square for the rest of my time here.”
Lawrence gave a low whistle. “That’s spendy, isn’t it? Why not just stay at his flat?”
She let just the hint of a coquettish smile dance on her lips. “Staying with a big brother can be difficult for any more than a night or two, if you know what I mean.” Especially when she was so angry with Terrence she could hardly stand to be near him. Her brother’s betrayal still felt so fresh.
“Protective?”
“A little. Disapproving . . . you know.” She’d trusted Terrence above all others, adored him, no, idolized him. But he hadn’t trusted her with the truth. Even if he hadn’t known right away, Terrence had to have eventually figured it out. After all, he’d been ten when she was born.
DI Lawrence grinned. “I understand. He has a reputation as being a bit straitlaced.”
“He’s rigid about certain things. He’s very much like the Earl. Very Catholic.” Until now, Darby had loved the strong, steady predictability of the two men who anchored her life. Now, she knew everything she’d thought about her life had been a lie. Terrence should have told her the truth; he should not have let her go on blithely thinking she was as much a part of the family as her brothers and sister were.
“The earl?” Lawrence blinked. “Oh, right, your father. Who would have thought I’d be sharing my breakfast with an earl’s daughter?”
She wasn’t going to tell DI Lawrence that the Earl wasn’t her father. The report in her file had said their mother had left the Earl, taking her two younger children with her, almost two years before Darby was born. Only Terrence had remained with the Earl. Juliette Reid had returned to her husband two years after she’d left him, and just a month shy of giving birth to Darby. No, the Earl wasn’t her father.
Darby said, “Terrence and the Earl are equally devout, which, believe me, is saying something.” That was an understatement. Not just devout, but Opus Dei devout. But that was none of Lawrence’s business. “We all had to go to daily Mass when we were kids, but I think Terrence is the only one of us who continued after we didn’t have to.”
“Unusual isn’t it, for a Scottish earl to be Catholic?”
“It is.” Darby set her coffee cup down. If the food was as bad as the coffee, they were doomed. “One of the previous earls fell in love with a Catholic woman who talked him into converting.”
“And your mother?”
Darby shrugged. “She’s Catholic, but she’s French. Church once a week is enough for her.” She didn’t want to talk about her mother. Or to her mother. She’d avoided going home or even talking to anyone there since she’d found out the truth about her parentage.
“And you?”
“I only go when I’m home and can’t get out of it.” She realized she was probably telling more about their private family life than Terrence would like her to do. But nothing she’d said was a secret.
“What about your brother’s wife?”
Now here was a subject Darby knew unequivocally Terrence would not want her talking about. His precious Anne was sacrosanct topic number one. Ironic that he’d marry a woman that was doing to him just what their mother had done to his father. Served him right.
“Anne’s Catholic. At least nominally, if you know what I mean.”
DI Lawrence nodded. “I saw the stories. She’s more of a sinner than a saint, looks like. So what’s going on with them?”
Darby stirred her coffee, a better alternative than actually drinking it. Terrence would kill her if she talked about Anne to Mark Lawrence. She was ballsy, but she wasn’t crazy. On the other hand, she wasn’t going to stick up for the bitch.
“You’d have to ask Terrence.”
“Not likely. No one talks to him about that. Verboten subject.”
“You’re telling me.” She gave a wry smile. “Why all this interest in Terrence’s wife?”
“Just making small talk.” He motioned his head indicating the approaching waitress who deposited their plates in front of them. Resuming the conversation when the waitress was again out of earshot, he said, “So, tell me, what clever new ideas does Interpol have about the investigation?”
Darby pretended to butter her toast, scraping off as much as she put on. She tried to block out the disgusting sight of undercooked eggs and fatty bacon on her plate. Even the tomatoes looked greasy. “We’re just here to help.”
Lawrence started to tuck into his fried eggs; the half-cooked whites and rubbery bacon didn’t seem to bother him. Between mouthfuls, he said, “I’ve heard your brother is tied in with MI5. Rumor has it he’s slated to take over MI5’s Scottish office when Schilling steps down.”
Darby concealed her surprise, even as she realized that it made perfect sense. So there was yet another secret her brother had kept from her. But Lawrence didn’t need to know that she’d been clueless, so she gave him a knowing look. “Let’s not go there.”
; “Did Interpol think Reid was on the right track when he was targeting Von Zandt?”
She paused, a piece of barely buttered toast raised halfway to her lips. “As I say, we’re just here to help. We’re not involved with every aspect of the investigation until we’re actually brought in. Now that we have been, we agree with Terrence’s conclusion that Von Zandt may be a sleaze, but that he’s probably not who we’re looking for.”
DI Lawrence stopped shoveling in his food long enough to take a drink of coffee. “We’ve been wasting our time, and the government’s money, then. Are you sure Reid means to give up on Von Zandt after all that we’ve invested in that line of investigation?”
“Unless something new comes up to tie Von Zandt in again, I’d say that lead will be dropped.” Darby averted her eyes from the congealing and disgusting mess of her breakfast. If she had to, she’d cut it up and push it around her plate to make it look like she was actually eating it.
“The brass can’t be too happy about this. I’d guess Reid got an earful when he told them.”
Darby swallowed a drink of the bitter coffee. “It’s not unusual for leads that seemed promising at first to dry up later. You think they’d blame him?”
“It’s Reid’s operation. He chooses the directions to follow. So I guess it’s fair for him to take the flak when he’s wrong.”
“I’m getting the distinct feeling that you’re not fond of my brother.” She silently pondered the implications of what Lawrence had said. Her own boss wanted Interpol to take over the investigation. He’d implied she’d be rewarded if she could make it happen. They’d been hoping she could get Terrence to agree, but she knew that would never happen. She’d have to go around him. Doubtless, DI Lawrence was looking for the same opportunity she was.
“We have differences of opinion, you could say. Some say that he’s been given the position he’s in because of who he is.”
“Obviously.” She held back from telling Lawrence that a piece of tomato skin was caught between his top front teeth, enjoying how ridiculous it made him look.
Lawrence vigorously shook a grubby salt shaker over his food. How had this place not been shut down for health code violations?
“I mean because of who he is outside of being police. That he’s been given preferential treatment because of, well, your family’s money and his title.”
Mad as she was at her brother, she didn’t like hearing him be disparaged by someone else. “I can’t imagine there’s anyone who works harder than Terrence does, or who is more dedicated.”
“I’m just saying not everyone thinks that way.” Lawrence’s glance slid to her plate. “You’re not eating.”
“Stomach’s still queasy from the flight last night. Choppy air.”
He looked chagrined. “Sorry.” After a pause he said, “You’re not going to eat your bacon?” He gave her a smile she thought he must consider his endearing-hungry-growing-boy smile.
“Help yourself.” She pushed her plate toward him. “So, impress me with your ideas of how you’d do things better.”
He shook his head, jabbed his fork into the wiggly bacon on her plate, and preening like the prick of a piggish peacock he was, started to talk.
Chapter 26
VON ZANDT’S ULTRA-MODERN offices all but shouted money-making mojo. Stark, sleek granite floors, white walls splashed with blood red paintings, and steel framed furnishings upholstered in violently expensive black leather. Reid could have sent someone else to do the interview, or could have brought someone else with him, but instead, he’d come alone, reasoning that a meeting alone would send more of a message.
An elegant young brunette dressed in a red that matched the paintings perched on a space age chair behind a metal and glass desk. She looked up, bored, then her mouth fell open and her face blossomed into an inelegant, genuine smile. “Oy, you’re Lord Reid, aren’t you?”
He’d started to recognize that look on strangers, but he still wasn’t used to it. Those damned tabloids apparently had quite a following, especially among young women. Good thing he didn’t work undercover anymore.
He inclined his head in acknowledgement and forced a smile. “Just Superintendent Reid today. I’m here to see Walter Von Zandt.”
“I’ll see if he’s available, Lord Reid.”
She punched some buttons, spoke into her headset, then listened. She fluttered her eyelashes at Reid and smiled. “He’ll see you now. His office is . . . never mind, I’ll just take you there.” She took off her headset and, standing up, she motioned for him to follow her. “It’s this way.”
Reid followed, idly wondering who was going to answer the telephones in her absence. As she walked, the young woman chatted nonstop—asking him his opinion about the weather, the upcoming Easter holidays, and even made a brief reference to the events in California. He fingered his wedding ring, trying not to let his discomfort show. When they reached their destination, she reluctantly let him go, but not before reminding him of her name with what he thought was meant to be a soulful look, and telling him to let her know if there was ever anything she could do for him.
Lord save him.
Von Zandt’s private office was decorated in the same manner as the reception area. He sat behind a vast glass desk that held only a silver laptop computer. Not one scrap of paperwork was in evidence. Bare as it was, it was a legitimate-appearing office for someone who dealt, however indirectly, in terrorism and murder.
Walter Von Zandt stood up from a glossy black leather chair and came over to shake Reid’s hand. At fifty-seven, Von Zandt was still in good shape. He had a full head of steel gray hair and hard, cold eyes. He dressed impeccably, his clothes obviously expensive, and he sported a tan that shouted French Riviera.
“Please have a seat.”
Von Zandt motioned to the chairs in front of his desk, then went back behind his desk and sat down. “It’s been a while, Superintendent Reid—though you weren’t a superintendent last time we spoke. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Reid took a seat. “We’re making inquiries into the death of Richard Ramsey.”
“An unfortunate business.” Von Zandt shook his head. “Suicide is an ugly thing. Richard must have been very unhappy to have done something like that to his family.”
“Actually, it wasn’t suicide.”
“An accident?”
“Murder.”
“Murder? How terrible.” Von Zandt’s voice didn’t even try to express actual dismay or surprise. He sounded bored.
“Yes.”
“I hadn’t heard that the police suspected murder.”
“We just got the autopsy report today.” Reid said, noting that Von Zandt seemed to feel entitled to have received the correct information earlier. “As you’d expect, we’re talking to people who knew him. Do you know anyone who would have wanted him dead?”
Von Zandt’s reptilian eyes held Reid’s gaze, then blinked slowly and deliberately. “No, I don’t.”
“Tell me about your business relationship.”
Von Zandt gave an elegant shrug and stood up, moving out from behind his desk. “We had business dealings with each other, profitable for both of us.” He walked over to an Oriental cabinet that served as a drinks trolley. “Would you like a drink? Your family’s label.” He held up a familiar bottle of whiskey.
Reid shook his head, but noted the bottle was from Dunbaryn’s first reserve.
Von Zandt poured himself a whiskey and went back to sit behind his desk.
“You also had a personal relationship with him?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that. We were business colleagues, not friends.” Von Zandt steepled his fingers, ignoring the drink he’d just poured, and Reid realized the man hadn’t had any intention of actually drinking it. “Though I’m sure you’re aware that I have a relationship with his daughter.”
“Yes. I’ve spoken with Moira.”
Von Zandt blinked slowly. “This has been upsetting for her, of cour
se, but she and Ramsey weren’t close.”
“Did Ramsey object to your relationship with Moira?”
A cold smile played over Von Zandt’s hard features. “Hardly. He introduced us. You might even say he encouraged us to get to know each other. He thought I would be a good influence on Moira.”
“A good influence?” Reid could hardly keep the disbelief out of his voice.
“Yes, and he was right. With me, she finished school, and her marks greatly improved. She’s studying at the university now. Part time, of course, as she frequently accompanies me on my travels. Which is educational for her, as well.”
“You’ve been involved with Moira for some time, as I understand it.”
“Three years. She moved in with me on her sixteenth birthday.” Von Zandt would never admit to having been involved with Moira before the legal age of consent.
“Tell me more about your relationship with Richard Ramsey.”
“I thought your task force concentrated on organized and financial crimes. Not murder.”
“You’re well-informed. CID is actually taking the lead on investigating the Ramsey murder. But I have an interest in Richard Ramsey with regard to one of my own investigations.” As he had this information planted to come out in tomorrow’s news, Reid decided not to play coy.
“I’ve been receiving reports of your task force’s interest in me.” Von Zandt took a drink of his whiskey.
“Receiving reports?”
Von Zandt seemed to realize how close he’d come to admitting he had an informant in the police ranks. “Just an expression. Glasgow’s a small town in many respects.”
That was true, Reid thought, but just said, “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
“Let me assure you I am a legitimate businessman and any attempt to paint me as anything else I will consider to be defamation and harassment.”
Reid ignored Von Zandt’s threat. “Today I’m just here to talk about Richard Ramsey. Asking a good citizen for information that can help us catch his murderer. I’m sure you want to help us in our inquiries. Let’s start with what exactly were the business interests you two had in common.”